


Limerence and Reciprocation

by Hammocker



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Pining, Protectiveness, References to Homophobia, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Supernatural Elements, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammocker/pseuds/Hammocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels so natural, this twinge that flickers within Geralt at the mere mention of Dandelion. Perhaps dying and being resurrected caused more trauma than he had originally thought. Of course, then comes the question: what exactly had they been in the past? It's probably not much use worrying over questions of what he was before though. At least, that's what Geralt tells himself in his more disciplined moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that I have not read any other books in the Witcher series besides The Last Wish, and have only completed the first The Witcher video game. I will attempt to keep the story updated as I continue to play and read.
> 
> Currently, this particular fic is about 20000 or so words total, making this chapter only a tiny fragment of the whole. Overall, it has been a complete joy to write, despite it being a pain in the ass to keep these guys as in-character as possible. You know, besides the existence of bisexuality in them. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> Also, may I ask why this particular pairing isn't more popular? It seems like low-hanging fruit that no one else has bothered to explore. Are they just too straight to be paired together? No two (or more) characters of the same sex are too straight to be shipped together if you ask me. Not to mention that it makes complete sense for either of the two to be bisexual. Then again, maybe I just don't know something as I haven't gotten very far in either the books or the the second game.
> 
> Also, there's sex later. It just would not be The Witcher without gratuitous sex scenes after all.

The desire within Geralt starts out as a mere twinge. A flinch, a twitch, a natural reaction in his mind, akin to dodging blows from a monster or reaching a climax. He had been talking with a bard about the ballads detailing the exploits of the White Wolf. After failing to explain that he himself happens to be the very witcher described in the song, the name comes up: Dandelion; master bard. Geralt registers the name as belonging to a person he had known, yet the witcher can only recall an obscure image of the bard. Lithe; complex and colorful apparel; delicate hands. The last trait of Dandelion's that Geralt recalls forces him to stop and question what could possibly make a man's hands be so memorable. He shakes his head, and easily reasons that Dandelion is obviously skilled with the lute, so his hands would likely be fast and delicate, maybe to the point of notoriety. Still, the thought plagues him like the prancing simians that so often circle the witcher without rhyme nor reason, but Geralt pushes it out of the way to consider what Dandelion means to him personally. Thoughts of Dandelion's physical form are replaced with thoughts of Dandelion as a person. Dandelion is an extremely well-known and talented bard; Dandelion seems to have known him though their relationship is uncertain to Geralt at the moment; Dandelion is someone he wants to speak with as soon he possibly can. For a few brief seconds, all that matters to Geralt is that Dandelion is alive and well. A certain warmth flows through him as though pumped out of his heart besides his blood, but quickly subsides, leaving Geralt with the uncanny feeling of needing fulfillment. Once again, those last thoughts disturb Geralt. Why should he care for the welfare of some foppish poet that he had not met since he acquired amnesia? Why should thoughts of Dandelion give him such a gratifying sensation without reason? Dandelion, Dandelion, Dandelion, does no one else matter? Geralt promptly presses the offensive thoughts to the back of his mind, as he had with the last, knowing full well that all of his ideas will clash and he must confront them soon. For now though, he has his own troubles to worry about that are far more immediate. The Beast, the townspeople, finding a way into Vizima, all more important than this bard that he might have known would ever be. Still, it remains in the back of his mind, unforgotten and festering.

 

*****

 

A long while after the events in the outskirts, Geralt's introduction to the bard brings about often uncomfortable situations. Dandelion's first act upon spotting Geralt at the party Shani had put together is to stare at the amnesiac witcher with utter disbelief. Not a word can be spoken before Dandelion is rushing over to the Rivian and wrapping his arms around the unprepared mutant. Confusion floods over Geralt as he wonders not who this odd man is, but how he is not hurting himself on any of the sheathed, but exposed blades that Geralt keeps at multiple points around his armor. In fact, none of the weapons have even scarcely been disturbed. It takes little time for Geralt to realize that this must be Dandelion, the master bard he had heard so little about, but had most persistently unnerved him. The precise angle makes Geralt wonder exactly how often the poet had embraced him in the same way before now. A moment passes before the witcher realizes that Dandelion is speaking against him. Blathering about how he missed his friend, and that he had heard the news that the witcher was alive, but he had not believed it, and that he is just glad to see Geralt in one piece. For the first time he can remember, Geralt is forced to hold back from grinning.

 

By now, the two are being given a questioning glower by Shani. Upon realizing his action, Dandelion clears his throat and backs off from his old friend. He continues to stare at Geralt in wonder for a few moments before speaking, his speech now labored with incredulity, “But you couldn't be here, Geralt. You died. I saw it with my own eyes. We all sent you off.”

 

“Dandelion, I'm as alive as I can possibly be. I need to know: How exactly did I die?” He curses his learned flat tone of voice. Dandelion is sure not to trust him without even the sincerity of his voice as reassurance.

 

The bard frowns at the request and looks away from Geralt, “We were all in a tavern, and there was a crowd gathering outside. You went out to try to break them up.”

 

Geralt could swear that a brief flash of pain comes over Dandelion face, but he does not interrupt the retelling.

 

“One of them shoved a pitchfork into your stomach. That's what killed you.” Dandelion pauses for an agonizing moment after the statement, “You know, I don't know how you're here now, but you're real enough for me, and I don't like dipping back into bad memories.” Another moment's pause as the air clears before Dandelion's smile returns, “I'm just glad to have you back, Geralt. Let's drink.”

 

The Rivian breathes an inaudible sigh of relief, and from there the modest party proceeds as normal. Siegfried arrives a bit late, still in his armor no less, and proceeds to butt heads with Dandelion over the treatment of nonhumans and the quarantine. A heated argument rages for a while before being settled by Geralt finally siding with Dandelion's more progressive viewpoint. Geralt ends up reluctantly filching some liquor from the first floor thus mending his lightly bruised relationship with Siegfried. Then comes the main event, a song performed by Dandelion himself. Sitting on the floor next to Siegfried, the witcher finds himself intrigued. Dandelion's singing voice is quite enjoyable, despite the liquor seeming to displace the quality at points, and he could swear that there are either too few or too many syllables in the lyrics every now and again. Were he simply playing the lute, Geralt imagines that his performance would be far more captivating. The sudden clatter of two swords meeting each other on the floor briefly unhinges the audience's attention, though the sound seems to have no effect on Dandelion. No doubt the weapons are either Geralt's or Siegfried's, left there so that no one would be harmed during the festivities. Being the closest to the two blades, Geralt briefly considers separating the two from each other once again and putting them somewhere out of the way. He takes a second to turn back to the not at all fazed Dandelion, and ends up leaving them where they are. All too soon, Siegfried has stood up and finished the song with its final lines. Praises are heard all around, and Sigfried and Shani share some minor flirtation before the group disbands.

 

Geralt is the last one out of the small home, exiting only when he is certain that the three other attendees would be out of his sight. He walks outside at a cautious pace, glancing around for Salamanders or assassins, but what he does spot is more unexpected than any of the Salamandra. Dandelion is leaning against a fence nearby, waiting for him.

 

“Took you long enough. I was about to head off.” Dandelion tells his friend as he approaches him. A smile that seems more subtle than usual adorns his features. The looks suits him better than his usual smug grin, Geralt determines.

 

“Why are you still here?” The witcher asks, feigning impatience.

 

Dandelion's features droop at the coarse tone, and he almost bites his lip before words halt the act, “I wanted to catch you by yourself, Geralt. Shouldn't I be able to have my recently resurrected best friend to myself for a while after I've seen him die in pain and had to live with it?”

 

The witcher feels immediate sympathy for the well-intentioned troubadour, and remorse for his harsh disposition. It seems strange to him, this unfounded predisposition towards compassion when speaking to this man he barely just remembers. What were they in his past life?

 

“It was hard for everyone, accepting the you were gone. I know I felt like something inside me had been torn out or shattered even. Gods, I missed having you with me.” Dandelion is looking away now, clearly fighting back tears, “But now you're just here. I know you're you. The way you stand and walk and drink tells me that much. How is that, Geralt?”

 

It occurs to Geralt that reducing the distance between Dandelion and himself might bring some comfort for both of them. He steps towards the poet, not fully closing the gap of space that separates them, but removing enough of it so that they could reach out and touch each other if they wanted to. All he can offer now is the most honest words he can conjure up, “I'm sorry, but I just don't know. I would tell you if I could.” Geralt reaches out to put a hand on the distressed man's arm, and continues with increased sincerity, “I had no idea that my death was so hard to bear. If I could go back and change my actions, I would.”

 

Dandelion grips Geralt's wrist, almost as though he himself is still not convinced that Geralt is standing right next to him. Perhaps he even believe that Geralt might vanish if he lets go, “You know, I've wished that I could do the same ever since you died. Thought that maybe I could have convinced you not to face that mob.” He finally looks up at Geralt and meets the witcher's gaze, “Don't die again, Geralt. For my sake at the very least, don't get yourself killed again for no good reason.”

 

Geralt and Dandelion simply gaze at each other for a moment that stretched out far too long. Eventually, Dandelion is the one to bring the interaction to a close, giving Geralt a quick hug around the shoulders before turning and rushing off through one of the non-human district's alleyways. The Rivian stays rooted in place, staring at the spot his friend had stood in moments ago.

 

Meeting Dandelion once again had only made the odd twinge turn to a unfledged desire, akin to something like lust. It is not the same feeling that comes over him looking at a woman, Geralt can discern this much. The desire itself feels more emotional, grounded in bonds of friendship rather than a primal physical attraction. Geralt could not deny that Dandelion is appealing in his appearance. Obviously, the bard keeps himself well-groomed, to say nothing of his unusually light build for a man. However, unlike so many of the women they have both lain with, Dandelion's physical traits, and by extension his own, are not what carries their relationship. For that matter, Geralt is not even certain what has been carrying their relationship all this time. They had met long ago, but that is about all he knows. Their friendship clearly went far beyond mere drinking buddies, though that could easily have been how they had met in the first place. No, irate and detached as he may act, Geralt decides that he enjoys and appreciates even Dandelion's mere presence, and that he could most definitely trust the bard.

 

For just a moment, Geralt stands there, lost in thought, before a realization comes to his mind. “Dandelion!” He calls to the bard hoping that the man had not gotten far. His fears multiply when no reply is heard, and the witcher bolts through the alley after his friend. Exactly as he had feared: a Salamander has stopped Dandelion and now points a sword at the unarmed minstrel. From the distance, Geralt only just barely makes out a brief exchange between the two.

 

Dandelion has his hands flat towards the thug as he speaks, “... not be hasty... was just passing through...”

 

“...one of Whitey's friends... should cut you to bits right here...” With that, the assassin raises his sword and swipes at the bard. Dandelion gives a cry and grips at his shoulder, lurching backwards.

 

At that moment, any worry Geralt might have had dissolves and is replaced with sheer wrath. Drawing his steel sword, the wolf lets loose a roar that could have stunned a bruxa, and charges towards Dandelion's aggressor. The Salamander manages to take a look at the witcher for a brief second before the sword is plunged deep into his chest. A look of shock barely moves onto his face before his lifeless body becomes limp, held up only by Geralt's unwillingness to move. All is quiet after that, the silence only broken by Geralt's heavy breathing. The injured troubadour stands stock-still, dazed by both the attack and the witcher's abnormally primal outrage.

 

Finally, Geralt tugs his sword out from the chest, allowing the body to drop to the ground as well as the lesion enough room to pour out blood into the soil of the road. He sheathes his sword before looking back at the bard who only now seems to be truly perceiving his wound. The Rivian reaches into his satchel as he approaches the minstrel, rummaging for bandages, a phial of Kiss, a rag or some bottled water, anything that would help stop the bleeding which seemed to become heavier with each passing second.

 

“J-just get help, Geralt. Need help...” Dandelion's pleading is shaky, matching up with the rest of his body. His spindly legs wobble as though he could be knocked over by the gentlest of breezes, and Geralt is well-aware that he could pass out at any minute while losing blood as fast as the wound is expelling the thick fluid. Worse still is the realization that the cut runs down to Dandelion's abdomen and across his stomach. The bleeding may be less severe the lower the gash runs, but still Geralt finds himself beginning to panic.

 

A rush of hope comes over the witcher as his fingertips finally find the distinctive curves of a Kiss potion. He puts a hand on Dandelion's back to steady the bard, “You're no witcher, but it's all I have. Open your mouth.” He commands as he presses the bottled concoction to the poet's pale lips. There is a slight delay before Dandelion obeys the command, but Geralt responds instantly to the action, tipping the container upward. He only allows for a third of the mixture to be ingested before pulling it away. Dandelion gags on the foul fluid for one brief moment, but manages to swallow nonetheless. Geralt breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the blood quickly clotting around the worst of the cut. Deeming Dandelion unfit to walk until further notice, Geralt kneels down and pulls the bard's weak form over his shoulders. A whine of protest comes from Dandelion, but he does not struggle even once as the witcher stands once more, and carries him towards the hospital. Having no where else to bring the wounded man, all he can hope is that Dandelion will not catch the plague while in the building.

 

For some reason, he briefly entertains the hope that his friend will not flirt with the nurses, despite it being an inevitability. He cannot seem to place exactly why though, and the fact that the thought even crossed his mind puzzles Geralt. Why should he care if his friend wants to indulge himself in a bit of fun? Geralt himself is guilty of the same actions, though he prefers to think that he has more self-control when it comes to women.

 

He manages to shake off the unusual thought as he places Dandelion on a stretcher laid out on the floor. While a nurse tends to his friend, Geralt stays nearby for what feels like hours. Every movement the woman makes is observed closely through his almost fully dilated pupils. The worry that she may make a mistake in the mostly dark corridor nettles him more than anything else. When she finally leaves after dressing the wound, Geralt approaches his unconscious familiar, and puts a hand on his noticeably warm abdomen. He looks over the expanse of flesh where his friend had been cut. The wound is much too large to be particularly deep all the way through. An injury inflicted purely for cruelty's sake and nothing more. Geralt dissolves any scrap remorse he might have had for killing the assassin upon the realization. For a moment he stays just like that, enjoying the heat of Dandelion's flesh. He hopes that the troubadour's skin may never become cold; that it would forever be flushed light pink. Not realistic, but a comforting thought nonetheless.

 

Prying himself away from Dandelion is difficult, but before too long Geralt finds himself stalking towards the Melitle altar to meditate the night away. As he kneels down and shuts his eyes, Geralt hopes that he will be able to discern exactly why such abnormal thoughts had recently been plaguing him. However, before he could gain any new insight, the witcher drifts off into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope that the dialogue here doesn't come off as lazy, or awkward, or rushed. I did spend quite a while revising it to fit as closely to their personalities as possible, but I'm still not sure if I'm totally happy with it. I feel as though there could have been more description between the dialogue as well, though I've decided that because the dialogue is the primary driver in this chapter, I will try not to worry too much. The two are bonding through their talks, so that should be the focus.
> 
> I hated that Shani would reject any roses that weren't red like she didn't even care that you went out and got her a gift. Sure, there are a lot of situations like that, but the fact that that seems to be the only real use for roses as far as I know really peeves me.
> 
> There are also probably a few spoilers for The Witcher here as well. I thought you should know that.

“Geralt?” Slight pressure is put upon his shoulder, creating a pleasant atmosphere of warmth, “Hey, Geralt! Are you still alive? I know you don't need nearly as much sleep as a human. You've given me an entire lecture about how witchers work.” He feels a light push on his back that employs not nearly enough force to even tilt his frame, “If you don't get up now, I'll have you presumed dead and personally burn your body out in the back garden. Hair first.”

 

The final threat finally grabs the witcher's attention and he look towards the voice's source, “You wouldn't dare.” Geralt grits his teeth as his eyes finally crack open, and he identifies the man behind him as Dandelion. Memories washed away by inactivity in his mind begin to flood back. Vague memories of a Salamander, a blade, and a bit of Kiss are enough for Geralt to put the pieces together. As his eyes open farther, he finally sees Dandelion fully. The bard is not wearing his usual complex garments, at least not on his top half. In their stead, bandages with a patchy red hue cover his still wounded shoulder. Looking at the poet's middle, the shallower parts of the cut appear to be almost or completely healed. The Rivian dares not dwell on staring at his friend's exposed skin, and so he looks up at the warm expression directed at himself.

 

“Wouldn't I, Geralt?” Dandelion questions, lightly pulling a length of white hair out of place, “I'd have much less competition for women that way.”

 

Geralt turns towards the poet, and lightly swats away the hand holding his hair captive. If teasing is what Dandelion wants to dole out, Geralt figures that it would only be fitting to jest back at him, “I would have to come back as a specter to haunt you. Who would protect you then?”

 

“Myself, of course!” Dandelion announces in a boisterous cry, “I'd have to challenge your ghost with the weapons that you left behind, and send you straight back to afterlife. Thus taking up your title as a witch-Agh!” He had lifted his arms into the air for a mock moment of triumph, but quickly snaps them back down, gripping at his injured shoulder.

 

“'Witcher Dandelion.' I don't buy it for a moment. It sounds nothing like you” The witcher stands up slowly, not daring to allow Dandelion to see his suppressed smile, “Don't ever change, Dandelion. Not even to have a witcher's discipline.” He orders the bard in his normal blunt tone.

 

“Never, never.” Straightening up again with a short grunt of pain, Dandelion looks back up at his best friend, “Well, Geralt, you've saved my life once again. Thank you. I, and many others greatly appreciate your preservation of my existence.”

 

“A formal thank you will never replace a night with a princess.” The Rivian replies with a pensive sigh.

 

“In that case, let's just say I owe you a night with a royal. Or maybe just a royal bastard. And you wouldn't mind if I got you a man would you?” Something inside of Geralt leaps to action at Dandelion's final question.

 

_Thwap_. “Ow! Fuck! Geralt, you can't just strike an injured man! Know your own damned strength, good gods.” The minstrel puts a hand over his patch of slowly reddening flesh.

 

Geralt swallows thickly, realizing his defensive overreaction. In a dull panic, he attempts to shield himself behind a regular dry remark, “No, but I can strike my friends for being idiots. More so than usual anyway.” The glower Dandelion gives him would have made anyone else flush hot with embarrassment. Geralt can only clear his throat, and hope that his friend will be merciful, “I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry, Dandelion."

 

Now pouting, Dandelion takes his hand off of his side where the witcher had struck, “You're rubbing this for me, you bulky bastard.” He sits back down against the statue of Melitle's base

 

“You're such a child.” Geralt comments, but nevertheless kneels down near Dandelion. Normally such a request would be denied by Geralt as being degrading or not his problem, but he had been the one to hurt his friend in this case. It is only fitting to do what he can to help. Besides, were he to not comply, Dandelion might question his motivation. He might even question his sexuality. Geralt would never hear the end of it if the bard decided that the witcher is closeting an interest in men. Perhaps he truly is not as straight as he might like, but not even Geralt himself is completely sure anymore, and Dandelion's jeering would be of no aid to his plight.

 

Geralt removes both of his gloves, revealing his pale, calloused hands, and puts one on Dandelion's bruised skin. As he begins to caress the tender skin, the troubadour lets out a breath of air, “Wow. Even with your blisters, that doesn't feel half bad. Have you been learning massage techniques behind my back, Geralt?”

 

The Rivian presses insistently at his skin, now moving just beyond the area he had harmed, “It's a matter of knowing where to touch, and how much pressure to use. I could just as easily knock you out cold as soothe you.”

 

Dandelion turns away from his friend, allowing more access to his back, “Oh, you have got to do this more often.” He insists, seeming completely relaxed at this point. Quite the contrast to the tension he had been giving off just moments ago.

 

Geralt begins to use his second hand to press at Dandelion's skin more fully, “Yes, because you have so many knots and aches from being in a tavern all day. I'm not sore at all from fighting graveirs and echinops and gods know what else while trekking through swamps for weeks at a time.” Geralt teases in the confidence that he has been forgiven.

 

Dandelion rests his chin in the palm of his hand, grin now firmly in place upon his features. He turns his head a bit to glance at Geralt, “Well, if you're going to be like that, maybe you could show me a few tricks to use on you.”

 

The suggestion comes at first as a surprisingly selfless idea coming from Dandelion, but only seconds later does Geralt find himself disappointed by the poet's obvious ulterior motivation, “And seduce your female companions, no doubt.” He hopes to himself that his friend might at least deny the accusation.

 

The poet chortles at Geralt's remark, “Well, yes, Geralt. What kind of person would I be if I didn't share my talent with as many people as possible?”

 

The wolf wonders to himself why Dandelion is so damn keen on dragging his hopes through the mud, “Celibatic.”

 

Geralt feels the vibrations reverberating in his friend's abdomen while he laughs at what might have been a dry jest. The thrum is pleasing to the touch, and he almost wishes that he could press against his friend. It seems so wrong to resist an urge that feels as natural to him as breathing or arousal. Maybe Dandelion would not mind. Maybe Dandelion would even accept the action. He continues to massage said bard's back in silence, but all too soon his laughter fades, and his chance is lost. All that comes from his friend now is gentle breathing and the occasional sigh of encouragement.

 

“Master Dandelion.” The pair is interrupted by a voice coming from nearby. Geralt freezes in place as Dandelion looks over towards the source. The content look on his face is swiftly replaced by a coquettish beam.

 

“Nurse Marjory. Did you need something?” Were he not a witcher, the way Dandelion's voice drips dalliance would have made Geralt ill.

 

“It would be best if we could replace your bandage now.” The nurse makes her statement in such a pragmatic tone, Geralt cannot help but wonder if she had heard his friend at all. Still, he is appreciative for her blunt rejection of Dandelion's advance.

 

Dandelion stands up, allowing the witcher's hands to slide from his skin. He stretches briefly before responding, “I suppose I'll have to have that done then.” He turns back towards Geralt, “In that case, you should probably go do some witchering for a while. See you, Geralt.” With that, the troubadour strides off with the nurse.

 

Geralt stares after Dandelion, having no desire to move from the spot he now feels rooted upon. Only after the two have gone does he feel motivated to speak, “Farewell.” He finally replies to the now open air.

 

*****

Geralt rolls first, the sound of clattering die reverberating throughout the hospitals high halls. It is only the second that the troubadour has been confined to the hospital, yet the obligation to visit his friend distorts time in the witcher's mind. For all he knows, Dandelion could have been here for months on end. They could have been playing dice poker for hours.

 

At long last last, Dandelion breaks the silence with what a bit of hopeful news, “The nurses say that I should be fit enough to get out tomorrow.”

 

A sigh of relief reverberates through Geralt's mind. The only external reaction he manages is a curt nod, and a simple reply, “I should hope so.” He picks up the dice he had thrown before hurrying them back into their respective slots on his side of the board.

 

“I'll be heading up to the Trade Quarter then.” Dandelion announces next, “Nice little inn I could play at. I'm sure I'll see you there eventually.” He tumbles his own dice out across the board, making an audible expression of satisfaction as the die come to a halt, “Ten orens.” He decides before pulling his die back to his side of the board.

 

“Ten orens then.” Geralt has taken on a thoughtful expression at the former statement. There should have been no way for Dandelion to get a permit into the Trade Quarter. “How exactly do you plan to get in there?” He asks as he rolls the die once more.

 

“I have friends in high places, Geralt.” Dandelion states proudly, “I can get pretty much anywhere, plague or no plague.”

 

The skepticism in Geralt's features remains completely unchanged by the statement, “What do you mean by “friends”, Dandelion?” Once again, the clatter of die echoes through the room.

 

The bard clears his throat before replying, “I would have thought you would know.”

 

The witcher pauses from slowly returning his die to their indents. Proper questions are heavy on his tongue, but he holds them back in favor of a quip, “Mixing pleasure with business, are we?”

 

Dandelion lets out a short laugh at the suggestion, “Hard to keep them separate sometimes, Geralt. Particularly when you're negotiating with a beautiful, but not so bright young woman. Besides, it's not like you're exactly clean in that area.”

 

Geralt is taken aback by the comment. What the hell does Dandelion mean by that? He remembers back to Abigail, the witch outside Vizima. For whatever reason, she had offered to “get to know him better” before confronting the villagers. Geralt had been irritated by the offer, and promptly turned her down on it. Quite frankly, the assumption that the offer of stimulation would sway Geralt is an insulting idea. Still, he had saved her, but that was only because it would have been wrong to allow her to be burned, sexual favor or no sexual favor. It had simply been a matter of choosing the lesser evil. Geralt is a creature of his own principles, not his lust. Had he ever not been like that? It might be wise to ask, but it is far more important to assert who he is now. The past could come later.

 

“I don't negotiate with sex, Dandelion, and I don't take advantage of women in compromising positions.” Geralt finally replies, steadfast and sure.

 

“Oh, come on, Geralt. You're far from chaste, and I think you know it as well as I do.”

 

“Dandelion, this isn't about being chaste.” Geralt asserts firmly, forcing the smile off of Dandelion's face, “I have my reasons.”

 

“You haven't been messing around with any cults, have you?” Dandelion questions. At this point, he seems genuinely horrified at the prospect, looking at Geralt with concern, “I mean, I know you're trying to get everything straight now that you're alive again, but, well, I had thought that sleeping around was part of you.”

 

Geralt can only swallow in response to the cluster of assumptions that Dandelion is making, knowing full-well that he could not tell his friend just now about what exactly is going on in his mind. “Don't jump to conclusions, my friend. You're better than that.” He looks down at the dice board, averting his eyes from Dandelion's, “It's nothing like that at all.” Allowing no time for Dandelion to ask any further questions, Geralt hastily begins to clear and pack up the dice poker set, “I forfeit; the orens are yours.”

 

“Geralt, is something on your mind? Do you need to talk?” Dandelion asks, tossing aside his usual frivolous disposition to show concern for his friend. “You can tell me whatever you need to, you know. I won't say anything if you don't want me to.”

 

The witcher pauses briefly to look directly into his friend's worrying eyes. If only Dandelion always expressed the thought and dignity that he appears on his face now. The look is an exquisite rarity on his features. Even so, Geralt knows well enough that Dandelion would not appreciate the fullest of his affections. He would have to sort this out himself. Geralt shakes his head after a moment, “No. I'll see you when I finally get into the Trade Quarter. Farewell, Dandelion, and don't get into any more trouble.”

As he leaves, Dandelion speaks to him in a tone suited to musing, “Not without you, Geralt. Never without you.”

 

*****

 

Before he can move on, Geralt realizes that he needs to settle things with Shani. She would be around him for a while, and he would likely have to rely on her at some point or another. Best not leave her hanging onto a thread of hope that the witcher would return her feelings. Geralt simply has no interest in her; not as a lover anyway. Not as she might like him to. Geralt would not even accept an offer of sex from her, if only because he does not find Shani to be particularly attractive. Best to allow her to begin to understand his feelings now. They could be friends, but not more than that. Surely that is not an unreasonable idea..

 

Geralt purchases a bundle of flowers from the gardener outside of Saint Lebioda's in the evening. A very specific purchase in fact: yellow roses. A flower signifying a platonic relationship. A fully non-sexual friendship. What Geralt may not be able to bring himself to say in words, perhaps he could say with something as simple as an arrangement of tame flora. At the very least, Shani would be less likely to get upset because of Geralt's less blunt method of getting his message across.

 

As the sun and its glow hover downward on the horizon, Geralt makes his way to Shani's house once more, roses clutched in his hand. The elderly woman ignores him as he treads up the stairs, recognizing the witcher from his last visit.

 

Shani does not immediately take the flowers from him, “Lovely flowers, Geralt.” She comments, no life in her words, “Different ones mean different things, you know.”

 

“I'm aware, yes.” Geralt says with a nod, still holding the roses out for her to take.

 

“Red roses, for example, symbolize romantic love.” Shani informs him with unspoken suggestion in her tone.

 

Geralt's eyes narrow at the unsubtle ideas under Shani's words, “And yellow roses symbolize friendship, so I bought them for you.”

 

“What are you saying, Geralt?” Shani questions, becoming impatient at the witcher's insistence.

 

“I'm saying that you're my friend. Is there something wrong with that?” Geralt questions, his brow raised in scrutiny.

 

Shani clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably, “Well, actually I had thought that maybe we could go a bit beyond that.” She explains with a hint of optimism.

 

Geralt stares at Shani for a few moments. No anger enters his expression, only an air of subdued disappointment comes over him. “Shani,” He finally starts, voice calm, and almost gentle, “I'm not attracted to you. I'm not saying that you aren't a beautiful young woman, that would be a lie, but *I* am not interested. Not even physically, if I may be honest. I respect you. You're intelligent and kind and compassionate, and I have no desire to make an enemy of you. You and I just don't make sense. Not in the long-term.”

 

At Geralt's final thought, it is Shani's turn to raise an eyebrow, “What do you mean we “don't make sense?””

 

“I'll put it this way: our relationship isn't that special. There's little to no dynamic between us. If we tried to be in love, it would be a dull love. Fairy tale love. The sort that sours as soon as the story ends because both partners soon start having affairs with other people.” Of all the things for Geralt to at least vaguely remember, he recalls the many fairy tales he had been told the most vividly. He remembers their grains of truth, and the useful knowledge of all their falsehoods as well. Strange that such things can have their uses in every situation.

 

Shani looks away from the witcher as she considers his words. For a moment, Geralt is afraid that she will suddenly fly into a rage, but when she looks back at him, there is only mourning in her eyes. She nods, and finally accepts the roses from his hand. “Alright. I think I understand, Geralt. If you ever change your mind though, I'll be here.”

 

He almost smiles at Shani. Quiet acceptance had been the last thing expected. Maybe he had misjudged Shani and her intent. Then again, she could become bitter later on, but Geralt is not of a mind to pay that possibility heed immediately. For now, he treads down the stairs with a cleared conscience.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oddly enough, some of my earliest writing done for this fanfic is used in this particular part as I started out beginning much later in the plot of The Witcher. Things like the bit with Geralt masturbating and drinking with Dandelion were added much later, but everything else is pretty early. I'm not sure if you will be able to tell, but I hope it can be enjoyed just as much as my more recent writing.

Geralt is only digging himself a deeper hole as he carries on. Unfortunately, this realization only comes upon him while having drinking contest with Dandelion. Far from the best way to discover something about oneself. It had started out as simple quiet admiration for the minstrel's appearance, but as the consumption of liquor goes on, the appreciation is slowly being overridden by heat pooling in Geralt's lower stomach. He pleads to the powers that be that Dandelion would give in soon so that he could retreat to the room he had rented out in the inn.

 

When at last the minstrel admits his defeat, and explains the significance of his lute, Geralt rushes off to his room as quickly as possible. His swords are stripped off with almost inhuman speed, and he can barely even recall how he came to be sitting on the bed. He just barely unclips his belt, and tosses it to the side before pulling his pants downwards just enough to free his half-hard member. Immediately, he pulls back his foreskin as fully as possible. After putting it out of his way, Geralt gives a light, but full stroke upwards, stopping to linger on the glans. Using his thumb, he teases around the slit, now imagining a specific tongue lapping there. A thought flits by in his mind: Has Dandelion ever fellated anyone? He would not be surprised, but it still strikes him as a strange idea. No doubt Dandelion has given cunnilingus to one woman or another. The bard is the sort to please his bed mates. Geralt lets out a slow groan as he considers Dandelion swallowing him down to the hilt. Romanticized as the thought may be, it manages to send the witcher close to his climax. Such a different thought, being given oral by his closest friend. His closest friend who happens to be a man, and who likely has no interest in Geralt; certainly not in this way. After the thoughts of Dandelion enter his mind, it takes only a short period of time before Geralt finally reaches his orgasm. The intense feeling manifests itself for a only a few blissful seconds before disappearing, leaving behind a sticky residue and a heady scent in the air.

 

Geralt allows himself to fall back onto the small, shabby bed. Figuring that no one will notice nor care, he disposes of the semen remaining on his hand by rubbing it into the top blanket on his bed. The oddly familiar feel of being in this particular position becomes comforting after only a moment. He had rarely allowed himself to simply lay down during his time hunting the Salamandra, now that he thinks about it. Too many important things to do to have any real sleep. Geralt is almost tempted to allow himself to fall asleep. Maybe steal fifteen hours or so from his mission to dream of Dandelion and not worry about responsibility. Ultimately, he sits up, and tucks his now flaccid length back into his pants before retrieving his belt and weapons from where they are strewn about in the room.

 

*****

 

The retrieval of Dandelion's lute brings back in full force the feelings of an odd affection for the good-natured minstrel. Remembering the incident with the satyr and the elves causes Geralt to recall a rather pleasant image of Dandelion, bound and gagged. He has no wish to continuously conjure up the image in his mind, yet it stays in the forefront of his thoughts for far too long. Worse still is the envy he feels while talking to the airhead who had kept the lute away from her justifiably upset father. Geralt wants to slit her all too perfect throat as he hears her thinly veiled solicitation, and the feeling only grows stronger when she becomes irritable at his mild-mannered rejection. Though he dares not act upon the thoughts, they remain until he is halfway back to the inn. Geralt is perfectly aware that he has no place feeling resentful towards the women his friend decides to give the time of day, but still the inexplicable possessiveness finds its way into his psyche. He would have thought that these abnormal thoughts about his friend would be out of his control by now, yet somehow he had continued reasoning himself out of rash actions.

 

“Geralt, it's your roll.” A seemingly distant voice calls to him.

 

The voice at first does not quite register in Geralt's mind.

 

“Are you feeling okay?” The same voice asks him.

 

The witcher's eyes dilate slightly as he snaps back to reality, focusing on the concerned and inquisitive face of Dandelion. He realizes that he had drifted into his own thoughts during their game of dice. Blinking and shaking his head he mutters, “I'm fine. Just got a bit lost in thought.” For a moment, Geralt's eyes stray to Dandelion's hands and wrists. He wonders where their trust begins and ends. Would tying Dandelion's wrists be too much? No, he deduces, Dandelion would trust him enough to be led along with hands bound. Satisfied with his conclusion, Geralt pauses before adding a blind-fold to the equation to blur the lines. Again, Geralt comes to the conclusion that Dandelion would not mind. Only does Geralt begin to think his friend might consider the bonds too much when he adds a gag to the equation. By then Geralt's thoughts are interrupted once more.

 

Dandelion has cocked an eyebrow upward and is giving a familiar look of incredulity, “Again? How do you keep doing that, Geralt? With all the constant chatter around the inn on top of a thousand other small noises, you'd have to be drunk to even begin to think around here. But do I see you swaying from side to side? I think not.”

 

Geralt only half hears the what Dandelion says. Instead of listening, he watches Dandelion intently, making note of the bard's gestures and expressions. At first, Dandelion is giving him a look of mock surprise punctuated by a downplayed smile that will stay all the way through and past his speaking. Geralt decides that he likes the poet's smile upon scrutinizing it for the first time. He wonders if he had made Dandelion smile often before he died, came back from the grave, and gained amnesia. Probably not, the Rivian eventually decides. He had never considered himself the sort to be much of a positive stimulus. At the start of the second sentence, Dandelion crosses his spindly, calculated legs in an almost flamboyant manner. Of course, as a lover of the limelight, Dandelion does many mundane things flashily as he can. Geralt figures that it is just his nature to do so. By the third sentence, Dandelion is giving the witcher an skeptical look, garnished with wide, expectant eyes, asking silently for a reason and every miniscule detail. Geralt could tell Dandelion exactly how he feels. Tell of his desire to bend Dandelion's actions to his whim. To bend the poet over the table, leaving him vulnerable to every foul desire that the witcher would act upon. Geralt takes the option of staying silent instead.

 

Dandelion waits a moment for a reply before beginning to look somewhat annoyed by the silence, “Well, since I'm not holding your attention, maybe you should go get out for a while, Geralt. Hunt some monsters or just sit for a while. Get some air.” Dandelion suggests, glancing at the door to outside before adding, “But could you come back at eight? I'd appreciate you being here for at least one of my proper performances. And who knows? The mighty witcher might even find himself enjoying a ballad or two.”

 

The White Wolf decides right then and there that he would show up. He would finally tell Dandelion about what has been going on after the performance, “I'll come if I find time.” He replies with no particular inflection. Geralt silently rises out of of the chair he had been seated in and walks out the door of the tavern.

 

*****

 

From the tavern, Geralt finds himself taking a route back to the Temple Quarter. He does not really feel like doing any proper witchering, nor dealing with whatever Triss might put him up to so he simply allows his feet to take him where they please. Before he knows it, Geralt has found himself back at the stall of an antiquary in the minuscule merchant's district of the Temple Quarter. Just the other day he had been there, selling off some of his own unneeded books, when a particular title caught his eye. A book of abnormally large breadth and thickness titled _Sex and Sexuality and Understanding Their Intricacies_ written by an anonymous author. Quite a blunt title. Strange that no one had already purchased it. Geralt had opened the book to its table of contents. Only out of curiosity, of course. On the inside, the paper appeared fairly new. There was no yellowing to speak of, the paper had not been brittle in the least, and there were only a few signs of wear and tear. His eyes were immediately caught by the fifth chapter: “Male-on-Male.” By that point however, the antiquary had been eying him suspiciously, and so he had closed the book and moved on.

 

Once more, Geralt approaches the stand, and eyes the books laying on the display table. The leather bound thing still sits there, taunting him with its mere existence.

 

“Are you going to buy the damned thing or not?” The dwarven antiquary finally questions, impatient at Geralt's loitering in uncertainty.

 

Finally, an external prompt to force him to decide. Geralt would thank the dwarf if it would have seemed less strange to do so in this circumstance. “I think- yeah. I'll take it.” With the words out, one of Geralt's many personal albatrosses is removed from around his neck.

 

The transaction is quick and painless, and a mere 100 orens are spent on the publication. Geralt immediately stows the heavy book in his satchel, and starts down the alley. Where to read this thing? No place public, obviously. Shani's? No, if Shani saw him with this thing she could jump to some sort of unwanted conclusion. Triss probably would not be much better. His room at the New Narakort? No, no, he would have to pass Dandelion to get there, and he would prefer to avoid the bard until tonight. Eventually, the answer dawns on Geralt: Kalkstein's home! Kalkstein would be staying in the swamp tower he had raved for so long about gaining access to, so Geralt would have the peace he so desperately wants while reading this book. Even more convenient, the home is no more than a short walking distance away.

 

Once Geralt has entered the alchemist's dwelling, he pulls out the book and places it on the table sitting in the middle of the room. Geralt then lights a candle near to the book, and settles himself on one of the seats surrounding the table. He opens the book to its table of contents once more, and gives the topics a more thorough looking over. “Male Sexual Anatomy”, “Female Sexual Anatomy”, “Male-on-Female Sex” (the sub-topic “Female-on-Male Sex” piques Geralt's interest), “Male-on-Male Sex”, “Female-on-Female Sex”, “Miscellaneous Sexual Positions”, “Group Sex”, and “Fetishism and Paraphilia” are only a few that are listed. Who could possibly have dedicated themselves so completely to studying such a seemingly simple topic as sex?

 

Geralt supposes that he should start with his primary interest. He flips to the page specified as the beginning of the “Male-on-Male” chapter. The first things that catch his eye are the couple of images printed among the text. One is a waist-up painting of two men sharing a deep kiss and wearing no clothes to speak of. Besides the subject matter, the work is a competent, semi-realistic image, likely created by the author specifically for the book. Nothing terribly special though. Still, something inside of Geralt instinctively becomes unsettled by the ideas presented by the image. Bizarre, considering the feelings that he himself had been feeling for the past several weeks. The other picture appears to be a simple sketch of two men rubbing the penises together, labeled “Frotting.” The act is completely alien to Geralt. It seems like something that could lead only to pain followed shortly by an awkward farewell. What an odd thing to open the chapter about homosexuality on. Or could that be the standard sort of sex that two men could engage in? Geralt eventually begins to skim the text printed across the pages. A brief bit about stigma regarding homosexuality and its lack of proper justification starts out the chapter, followed with a convincing paragraph about the idea that men are more likely to intuitively understand each other's sexual needs more than any woman.

 

Geralt turns the page soon after, and is greeted with one leaf made up fully of sketches and diagrams, while another is only a wall of text. Once again, he scans the drawings carefully first. The first image appears to be a diagram of two men engaged in anal sex with a note near it to reference the chapter covering sex positions for more information on anal. The idea of two men engaging in anal sex makes a good bit more sense than the aforementioned “frotting” to Geralt. At least there would be actual penetration involved. The second down is a more fleshed out image, showing an even more bizarre image. Could that possibly be an image of a man licking another's anus? Who in their right mind would think to do that? Sure, Geralt would never have to worry about bacteria, but this book was more than likely written by normal humans. In the back of his mind, Geralt hopes that no one caught any diseases in the making of this book, however unlikely the possibility is. At the same time, he cannot help but wonder if Dandelion would enjoy having such an act performed upon him. Geralt has no objections to the idea. It could not hurt to try it, at least. The last diagram seems to be of some sort of semi-phallic sex toy. However, it becomes bulbous and bloated towards its end. Nothing terribly interesting, so Geralt shifts his eyes to read over what the other page has to say.

 

“Anal Sex and the Prostate,” reads the header. Whoever these people are, they lack any shame whatsoever. Though, Geralt likely has an even greater deficiency as he is the one who bought the book. He starts on the description of why exactly the prostate is so important in this situation. As he gets farther and farther down the page, Geralt's face slowly fills with a light look of astonishment, mixed with a fair amount of skepticism. If any of what is written on this page is true, it would make having sex with Dandelion so much less of a confusing and awkward ordeal, as he had imagined it would be. 

 

He wonders if the witchers had had a copy of this book at Kaer Morhen. Had he known about any of this before losing his memories? Are all witchers taught about this key piece of their anatomy? Beyond its more practical uses, that is. They could not possibly all be ignorant of something like this, considering how true the stereotype of promiscuity among witchers could be. For a moment, he entertains the thought that perhaps some witchers might sleep with each other. Not an unexpected idea at all, but his mind immediately turns to the idea of Vesemir, of all people, bedding another witcher. Something about the idea turns his stomach uncomfortably, and he dismisses it with a shake of his head before focusing back on his book.

 

He skims the rest of the chapter, only giving the pictures and diagrams a passing glance. Positions, bits of anatomy, foot notes regarding slang, erogenous zones, virtually anything one would appreciate knowing when considering sex with another man. Amazing how such a thing can have entered his possession in the time that he truly needs it. Geralt had been previously aware of the odd practices humans dream up, and carry out during sex, but generally he has detached himself from them. More than that, he had barely even considered how one would have sex with another man until getting a good look at Dandelion. Sleeping around aside, Geralt had never found himself doing anything particularly unusual with any of the one-time female partners he had managed to find himself in bed with throughout his journey. Fascinating how something that could be seen as so clinical could also have so many intricacies.

 

Perhaps all this excess thought is simply his way of avoiding the thought of what he might say to Dandelion. How he would start, where he would go, what his point would be exactly. Early on, Geralt had decided that it would be wise to allow things to happen by themselves, and avoid planning as much as possible. Of course, the thoughts and the worries still make their way into his mind. At times, he considers not going to the recital at all, and avoiding Dandelion for a while after that. However, he never looks at this as an option. No, the witcher has to speak about his emotions with Dandelion tonight, and no later.

 

It is six in the evening when Geralt finally decides to meditate for an hour or so. Kneeling on the one pelt in Kalkstein's home, a look of peace washes over the White Wolf as his muscles loosen, despite how frantic his life has become since his resurgence. He reviews the information he has gathered for no more than a moment, sets up an hourglass nearby, and forces himself into a state of light sleep.

*****

Geralt awakens to the sight of an already empty hourglass. Realizing that he may be late, he snatches up the hourglass and jumps to his feet, bolting down the stairs and out the door. The few people still out and about at this hour stare at the witcher as if he is a madman; more so than usual. Guards make comments on his sanity or simply shake their heads at him as Geralt passes by. Approaching the tavern, Geralt slows to steadily regain his breath and composure before calmly walking inside.

 

The first thing he notices as he strides inside is the unnatural silence, broken only by the occasional peaceful lute chords coming from one side of the building. Geralt turns towards the source of the hypnotic sound and spots a crowd of fair size clustered around Dandelion. All, even Dandelion himself, seem lost in a trance. Half-filled tankards are left forgotten on tables, not a sound of rattling die can be perceived, and even the fist fighters have called a temporary truce. Geralt himself is soon lost in the minstrel's pleasant thrall. The little focus the witcher can muster he places on Dandelion himself. It takes only a moment for Geralt to become captivated by the uncharacteristic, yet lovely look of tranquility that has come over his friend. Geralt could only wish to own that expression as he watches the bard closely, robbed of any words he may have previously wanted to speak.

 

Geralt's resolve is gone in an instant as he enters a haze while staring at Dandelion, and he is left with only the burning desire to get Dandelion into bed. Much as he had tried to rationalize it, that is all that has been on his mind today. Feelings, emotions, connections; all justifications, and little more. Justifications with some weight to them, true, but still reasons to test Dandelion in bed. Like Geralt is still thirty years younger, and experimenting with anyone willing to get within a foot of him. Had he experimented then? Probably not. He would have had no time then between his training and his studies. Despite everything else, the main point stands: Geralt's goal here is, as ashamed he would be to admit it, convincing Dandelion that they should have a go at each other.

 

All too soon, Dandelion ceases his playing and is met with due applause from his previously captive audience. Geralt curses himself for not arriving earlier as the tavern's patrons return to their ordinary activities. While the crowd disperses, Dandelion bolts for the door to the outside. Geralt notes the unusual occurrence mentally. He had never known his friend to hurry anywhere unless made to. Or had he? The memories are all still so murky. The mystery bothers him for only a moment longer before he spots several noble women following slowly after him. Typical Dandelion; eager to get into their skirts at whatever location they had designated beforehand. Geralt will have none of that tonight. Before he can run out of the inn, Geralt catches Dandelion's wrist, displaying the witcher's legendary reflexes.

 

Unable to slow himself or even realize what has happened in time, Dandelion feels his arm being nearly pulled out of its socket. He howls in pain before he manages to recover and turn toward the witcher, “What the hell, Geralt?! Let me go!” He hollers, struggling to free himself.

 

The White Wolf's usual collected expression never once falters despite Dandelion's clear distress, “I wanted to compliment you, Dandelion. I hadn't realized how bewitching you are with that instrument.” The confidence given off in his voice is a surprise to Geralt. He had not expected his visible shame to disintegrate along with his restraint. Geralt loosens his grip as he feels Dandelion's squirming cease in his grasp.

 

Dandelion stares at Geralt, frozen with shock for the longest time before grinning at the witcher, “Well, well, Geralt of Rivia finally finds his soft spot for Master Dandelion's lute. Why none of this when I played at Shani's place? Did my singing really leave you so speechless until now?” The look on Dandelion's face is absolutely intolerable for how much self-satisfaction it radiates. It has to go, and very soon, “Who knows? Maybe you'll even appreciate those pieces I write about you now.” He adds, suppressing a jubilant giggle.

 

Geralt snickers dryly at the last comment and puts one arm around Dandelion, using the other to feel at the back of his friend's neck, “Don't get your hopes up. If I may get back to my original point, you're far more easy on both eyes and ears when you play without pressure on your lungs. Focused. Calm. Flawless. Captivating.” The shameless flirting is most certainly not lost on Dandelion as Geralt feels the bard stiffen up for a second time before attempting to pull away to no avail. Geralt extends his fingers into Dandelion's hair. Disappointment strikes when he realizes that he still wears his thick leather gloves and cannot feel the texture of the dark strands.

 

Dandelion looks up at his friend and frequent companion with uncertainty, “Geralt, you mean- you- I-” Looking up at the witcher now, Dandelion appears much more assailable than normal. Helpless almost.

 

“Listen, Dandelion, I've been meaning to tell you my exact opinion of you. Unfortunately, I've had to wait until just now for my own reasons.” Geralt mutters, speaking softly into the bard's ear, “My eyes fall on you first in any room. Your bright attire and positive air among washed out colors and more washed out people draws me in, but I stay for the observations and opinions that flow from your lips. Simple things many might think, disjointed and haphazard, but vibrant in your eloquence. Thoughts so strange and yet so common. I may not enjoy your ballads, Dandelion, but your musings fascinate me.” The witcher pauses upon noticing the look of bewilderment on Dandelion's face, “In layman's terms, you're different. Antithetical, maybe.” Geralt moves his hand to the front of Dandelion's neck and shifts the bard's head, so as to force the continued meeting of their eyes. “Triss, Shani, and every bar wench I've ever leered at be damned, I could think of no one better to couple with than you.” With those words, Geralt presses a kiss to Dandelion's unsuspecting lips.

 

Dandelion's eyes widen and he looks around frantically, having absolutely no idea how to respond to the sudden gesture. As soon as Geralt breaks from the kiss he finds his voice, “Whoa, hold it, Geralt, I don't know about this. I mean, I've known you a long time, and you're a great friend, and you've saved my ass more times than I care to count, but this just seems like a bit much.”

 

The response is one Geralt could have anticipated. Not a no, but not a yes. Simple uncertainty. Geralt figures that he will simply have to convince the bard to at least try sex with him. He would have to at this point if does not wish to have an awkward edge to their future interactions. The right words craft themselves in his mind after only a few seconds of thought. Something that plays to Dandelion's non-discriminatory attitude towards sex, as well as implementing his own amnesia for effect. He gives Dandelion a questioning gaze, “We've never found ourselves grinding against each other after a long day? Never given each other provocative looks? Never exchanged dirty words? That I can hardly believe. You don't seem like the sort to pass on so many opportunities.” Geralt feels an all too well-known tug of sympathy in his chest as Dandelion looks away, for once unsure of what to say. Not wanting to lose the moment, the witcher places a gloved hand on the troubadour's cheek and tilts his head upward slightly, forcing eye contact, “It's not like you to be so indecisive. At the very least give me an opportunity to show you how this can work. I will be gentle with you as long as that's what you want.”

 

“Could we please get a room first?” Dandelion asks, giving in just a little too easily. For once, Geralt must concede that Dandelion has offered him a practical idea, and the compliance makes the whole ordeal much less of a hardship for Geralt so he could not protest. Ignoring the many looks from the tavern's patrons as well as the peeved glares of the women that had been following Dandelion, the witcher makes his way towards the stairs to the second floor, keeping an iron grip on his friend's wrist that only grows tighter as Dandelion stumbles while trying to keep up.


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as they make it to the modest room, Geralt's weapons are the first to be stripped away, hastily pushed into a corner where they cannot harm nor be harmed. A jar of goose fat is taken from one of Geralt's satchels and placed on the bedside table for later. His silver amulet depicting a wolf baring its fangs is carefully laid down on the same table. The witcher's gloves and pouches, along with Dandelion's waist pack and sleeveless jacket quickly meet the same fate as the weapons before Geralt presses Dandelion against the nearest wall and begins kissing the bard, gradually becoming more aggressive as the seconds go by. The force Geralt uses leaves Dandelion momentarily breathless. Not used to being the weaker of a pair in bedroom affairs, Dandelion takes some time to adjust, but soon enough begins to return Geralt's kiss. Encouraged by the response, despite its delay, Geralt effortlessly presses his tongue into his friend's mouth, exploring the wet, tender flesh, and asserting himself over the bard all the while.

 

As their lungs begin to protest the lengthy kiss, Geralt pulls away to catch his breath and stare at Dandelion for a moment. Several beads of sweat are already dripping down the bard's face, and his face has been overtaken by a dark shade of pink, “Doing alright so far, Dandy?” Geralt asks.

 

Dandelion just barely registers the abnormal use of a pet name from Geralt, but easily formulates a reply, “Dandy?” He gives a short laugh at the name, “Fitting. You might just eclipse me with your clever wordplay one of these days, Geralt.” Dandelion quips, feeling a bit more confident now. Geralt is not half bad with his tongue in any regard, Dandelion can say that much at least. Maybe this experience would not be so terrible. He could enjoy it. Sure. Why not?

 

The too often used flat expression on Geralt's face melts into a hint of a smile upon seeing Dandelion picking up his usual humor, “You sound much better now.” Geralt replies before taking it upon himself to begin unbuttoning the overly complex garments the minstrel wears on his top half, allowing himself full access to Dandelion's lean upper body after only a moment. Geralt takes his time, drinking in the sight of Dandelion's bare chest and abdomen. His friend seems even more scrawny without clothing to cover his upper half. There is noticeably less hair covering his lean front than there would be on many men of his age including himself. A substantial amount, certainly, but still less than Geralt is accustomed to. Briefly scanning over Dandelion shows Geralt no signs of scars on his friend. A wave of satisfaction washes over Geralt. In all those years traveling with Dandelion, he must have kept the bard well-protected. The feeling lasts only a moment before Geralt recalls that he had once allowed Dandelion to release a djinn, exchanging the pride for a sense of guilt.

 

Geralt shakes his head, pushing the thought out of his head for the time being. His focus is immediately back on the bard's lithe physique, homing in on just how perfectly his scraggy abdomen leads into thin hips. The same pelvis is now almost uncovered as the top bit of Dandelion's leggings threaten to slip away at any moment as a result of Geralt pulling away the two conjoined belts that held them in place, creating a bit of much desired friction against the troubadour's now evident arousal. The same complicated leggings Geralt now dubs a severe pain in the ass, as it is taking far too long to get Dandelion out of them. 

 

“Dandelion, would you please get those damn things you wear on your legs off.” The witcher demands as he begins to strip off his own armor. Familiar straps and latches come undone easily and the piece of leather, and bit of cloth covering his middle is out of their way in moments with the bottom half quickly following.

 

The bard busies himself getting the “damn things” off of himself, as well as his thin boots that mimic the patterns on his other clothing. After his small-clothes are off, Dandelion finally looks up. For a moment, he simply stares up and down his companion's form. He had seen Geralt shirtless before, but never would he get used to the marks. Grotesque scars paint much of Geralt's flesh, and almost all are accented by the bleached, but thick hair growing around them. All of them are likely either from monsters themselves or magic used healing the witcher's body, be they claw or tooth marks, past burns, or deep sword cuts. None of them make the Wolf any less impressive though. They are simply a part of any seasoned witcher. Dandelion has to admit that the scars make Geralt seem not just rugged, but, if he may use an unorthodox, but situationally appropriate word, sexy as well. No way would he tell Geralt that right now though. No, he would wait for a better moment to give Geralt his thoughts on the witcher's appearance.

 

“You should wear that expression more often, Dandy.” Geralt states before picking the other up as though he weighs nothing and placing him on the bed at last, “Wide eyes suit you well.” The witcher moves on top of Dandelion, not quite straddling the troubadour, but preventing him from slipping away all the same. Noticing that Dandelion seems to have forgotten to remove his ever-present circlet, Geralt takes care to lightly lift the ornament off of his friend's head and place it on the bedside table against his own amulet. Dark hair that was once firmly held in place now falls into disorder, giving Dandelion a more agitated appearance. All the more intriguing in Geralt's eyes.

 

“It might suit you just as well to try wearing smallclo-” The retort is cut short as Dandelion takes in a sharp breath. The witcher looming over him has reached out and taken one of his nipples between two fingertips. The witcher wastes no time, rubbing the nerve enthusiastically and earning a continuous guttural whine from the lanky bard below him.

 

“I should do what now? You're usually so much more fluent. Is something the matter, Dandy?” Geralt asks, grinning wolfishly down at the smaller man, “Somehow, it surprises me very little that you've obviously been doing all the work while ploughing your many female acquaintances. I do, however, find it difficult to believe that you of all people are unused to being touched this way. Have you never even toyed with yourself?”

 

The only thing that the man below Geralt can manage is a shake of his head, and make a weak attempt at a glower in his friend's direction. The reply is not fully true; he had touched himself previously, but never lingered nor teased like the witcher is now, and he had certainly never rubbed at his nipples purposefully. In all honesty, Dandelion's primary goal is generally to reach his orgasm as fast as reasonably possible. Despite this, all he wants right now is for the witcher to keep leading him along slowly. Keep touching the far too often neglected flesh. Make it last as long as he could stand before Geralt reveals whatever he has in mind for the main event.

 

Dandelion's silent pleas are granted as the White Wolf busies himself, taking one of the now pert nipples into his mouth. As Geralt applies a mixture of tongue and suction, a moan slides from Dandelion's throat, and he reaches a hand out to grip and scratch at the taut flesh of Geralt's back. Teeth graze against sensitive flesh in just the right fashion, the feeling sparking a desire within Dandelion to abandon all dignity and plead for Geralt to have him already. When he opens his mouth to speak, however, the often verbose poet finds himself unable to form words. All spills from his lips is another desperate moan. Before he can realize what is happening, Geralt has stopped lapping at his skin and is now looking up at him.

 

“And you were so reluctant before.” Geralt comments before planting a kiss on Dandelion's neck. “Easily swayed, my lovely Dandelion?” The question is accentuated with fondling of the nipple Geralt had paid little attention to moments earlier. “I suppose it doesn't matter.” Geralt mutters as he moves his face closer to his partner's neck, “I did promise to be gentle, and I keep my word.” He breathes against Dandelion flushed skin as the pressing becomes light palming. Geralt's other hand moves down to stroke Dandelion's exposed thigh, slowly moving inward.

 

Finally, Dandelion has had enough and hisses out, “Geralt, if you don't get to the point right godsdamn now, I will leave you here to jack off by yourself.”

 

A small yet confident smile manages to make its way witcher's face, “You are no fun at all, Dandelion. Spread your legs.”

 

Dandelion raises an eyebrow at the order, “Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me fine, now do it.” Geralt pauses briefly, waiting for his partner to do as he was told. Impatience quickly gets the better of Geralt as Dandelion simply stares at him for a moment, and he finally adds, “I promise you, it will feel good.”

 

Dandelion makes no reply, and for a second longer stays still, gazing at Geralt. Finally, he swallows his pride, and spreads out his legs, leaving himself fully exposed to Geralt's intentions.

 

Geralt cannot help but lick his lips at the sight. Primal lust manages to cloud his once disciplined and restrained mind. Not wanting to hurt the fragile minstrel, Geralt stops short of shoving into Dandelion dry. He reaches over and dips his fingers into the goose fat that was put aside earlier while finally beginning to stroke the bard's weeping erection with his other hand. 

 

An appreciative groan is heard out of Dandelion. Not being properly touched by the other had become painful after a while. Before long an unfamiliar sensation is felt by the bard as Geralt presses a finger to his entrance. He had never been on the receiving end of anal sex, and it comes as no surprise to the poet that the feeling can only be described as unusual. Not truly painful, only odd. A shiver runs through his back as the finger reaches farther inside, and the sensation becomes increasingly intense as Geralt adds another digit.

 

The witcher continues caressing his friend's cock, intending to counteract the discomfort Dandelion must be feeling. He presses his fingers in more, and begins to scissor, hoping he will be able to locate the bundle of nerves that would have the bard begging once more to be taken. Reluctantly, he adds another finger, knowing that Dandelion would need to be stretched at least a bit more before he would be ready. Geralt breathes a silent sigh of relief as Dandelion lets out a sudden shout and bucks his hips before beginning to let out breathy pleas.

 

“Good gods! Geralt, I need more of that, now, please! Whatever you just did, your fingers aren't enough. Fuck me already!” Dandelion screws his eyes shut upon realizing that he is now blushing a deep red. He must look like so much like a virgin to Geralt, but the pleasure is too much for him not to beg.

 

Geralt can hardly say no to a request like that. The fingers are pulled out, forcing a whine from Dandelion, but are quickly replaced by Geralt's aching hard member which he had been trying to ignore for Dandelion's sake until now. As much as he would have loved to start pounding into the bard, Geralt wants his friend to enjoy the experience as well. Though in his current state, Dandelion seems to be enjoying himself well enough as he writhes for the tiniest bit of extra friction, with his legs wrapped around Geralt's hips in a feeble effort to move with the witcher. The words spilling forth haphazardly from Dandelion's are a nice touch as well.

 

“Ger- Ah! Don't dare slow down now! Harder! O-oh, yes, that's it...” 

All too soon, Geralt feels himself nearing his climax and Dandelion seems about ready to finish as well. The strokes to Dandelion's length the witcher had occasionally been allowing become ceaseless and after only a few, the bard tenses as his seed spills out onto his own abdomen. Geralt's even thrusts become frantic, and after several seconds he finishes inside of Dandelion. He pulls out only after lingering for a few moments, allowing some of the opaque fluid to slowly drip back out onto the sheets.

The witcher lets out a heavy breath before laying on his back, and putting an arm around the now only half conscious Dandelion. Masculine pheromones linger in the air between them both, and Geralt, for the first time he remembers, wonders which particles of scent belong to whom. As he strokes his friend's shoulder absentmindedly, the brunette glances up at him before using what must be his last scrap of energy to move himself closer to Geralt, and pull himself onto the witcher. The troubadour finally closes his eyes and lets out an steady breath against Geralt's chest. The temptation to lean down and kiss Dandelion's forehead is almost unbearable for Geralt, but he resists nonetheless, not wanting to disturb his friend's rest.

 

After a while the smaller of the two finally speaks, “So, that's what it's like to bed the famous White Wolf.”

 

“For you, anyway.” Said witcher replies, “There's no need for animal fat with women, they'll just secrete lubrication if you're...”

 

“I know how it works with women, Geralt.” Dandelion cuts him off, uncharacteristically impatient and sharp, “Now, the real question: what does this make us exactly? Friends with benefits? In the early stages of a proper romance?”

 

The question stews in Geralt's mind for a while with Dandelion waiting patiently for a reply. Finally, the White Wolf comes to a conclusion that would work, at least for now, “Both, maybe. I wouldn't mind doing this again. I'd need to think about a real relationship though.”

 

“Somehow I knew you'd say that. I suppose I'm open to the idea myself, so long as we don't restrict each other's sex lives.”

 

Geralt wants to snarl at the lithe minstrel. Tell Dandelion that he would have no one else from now on. With the knowledge that a response such as that would more than likely frighten the poet away, he settles on a more civil, reasonable response, “I don't think either of us could ever stop the other from freely frolicking in bed with anyone we fancy.”

 

Dandelion watches the witcher for a moment. He just barely picks up on the suppressed aggression hidden beneath his friend's voice. Hoping to avoid later conflict, the bard comes up with a compromise on the spot, “You know, just because I sleep around doesn't make me an addict. I can promise to cut down on my escapades if you'll do the same. How about this, neither of us will go after anyone else so long as the other is readily available. That sound fair to you?”

 

The suggestion comes as a surprise to Geralt. He had not thought the bard observant enough to notice the stifled growl in his voice, and he had certainly not believed that Dandelion would ever agree to anything that would put restrictions on his sexual encounters. Still, it pleases the wolf that his friend is both perceptive and thoughtful, “Deal. At least until I figure this all out.” 

 

Dandelion shakes his head to the best of his abilities resting against Geralt's chest, “Always thinking about this or that. If I didn't know better, I'd think you would never find the time for fun.” Dandelion repositions himself on the witcher slightly so that his head rests more on the center of his friend's chest.

 

A thought from earlier still plagues the Rivian. The situation with the djinn that had been unleashed by an uninformed Dandelion. The event is vague in his mind, but Geralt remembers that his friend had been close to dying. Far too close for his liking. Geralt looks down at the brunette, now resting peacefully with much of his face buried in the witcher's chest. A warm smile tugs at his so frequently stoic face. Like this, Dandelion would be best described as adorable. So much different from the strained looks of bliss intermingled with pain from earlier, and his usual air of arrogant playfulness. Geralt cannot help but reach out and stroke the dark, mussed hair, earning a grunt and tilt of the head from the poet.

 

Before he can stop himself, Geralt finds himself uttering his thoughts, “I never should have let you touch that seal. I'm sorry.” Geralt expresses the words with a solemn sincerity. He had failed not just as a witcher, created to protect humans, but he had failed as a friend as well. Truly the most painful memory is the sense that if he had just pulled Dandelion away from that damned container a moment sooner he could have prevented so much suffering. The suffering of Dandelion, and the suffering of... Geralt finds another hole in his memory there. A faint, familiar scent hangs in his nostrils while he considers what he could have forgotten. He knows he should ask his friend to fill in the gaps, and yet Geralt says nothing more.

 

Stirred by his friend's abnormally soft voice, Dandelion looks up at Geralt. Seal? He had not disturbed a seal. After a moment of sluggish thinking, the bard realizes what Geralt must mean: the incident with the djinn. Dandelion's eyes narrow with interest at the White Wolf's understandable, but previously resolved concerns about the event he had long ago recovered from. Strange, that his friend would remember, and even feel guilt over that incident of all their long-gone escapades. “Geralt, before you had amnesia you had stopped worrying about that, and so had I. We're both alive so there's no need to be upset about past mistakes. That's what I've tried to tell myself since I found out that you were alive. Sometimes it helps.”

 

The tone Dandelion uses is far from the pained sobs that Geralt had heard from the poet in front of Shani's house. Here, Dandelion almost seems to be hiding away from his guilt underneath a thin sheet of apathy and indifference.

 

“Now would you please at least pretend to sleep like a human? I'm tired, and for once I'd like to see my lover when I wake up.” Once more the poet allows his head to ease onto Geralt's chest.

 

Lover. Dandelion had called him his lover. Maybe he had not thought out his word choice in his drowsy state, but still the word had been used. An odd sensation pricks at Geralt's skin, akin to the feeling of sun rays against his pale skin. As much as he would have liked to stay awake and admire Dandelion's form, he knows it would be best if he could manage to get some sleep. He steals one last moment to gaze at his pretty bard before closing his eyes, and falling into a state of dormancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how good this scene is to be honest. I was very divided between sophistication, and fappability during its writing. Also, I don't understand the clothes work in the first Witcher game. Somebody critique my work. I can't know if I'm any good any other way.


End file.
